


Warm Up

by ProseApothecary



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Angst and Fluff, Eddie Kaspbrak Lives, Hollywood comas, Hollywood physical therapy, I.e. sexy massages, M/M, Mutual Pining, Roommates, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2020-11-27
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:34:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27326617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProseApothecary/pseuds/ProseApothecary
Summary: “At age 13, I wanted 3 things. A widescreen TV, a ticket out of Derry, and you.”
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, One mention of Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh
Comments: 73
Kudos: 241





	1. Chapter 1

“Ok.” Richie taps his fingers against the wall. “So this is stupid, like colossally stupid. I’m kind of happy that you’re not awake for this, actually, because you would definitely never let me live it down.”

Eddie doesn’t move.

“Kidding,” Richie says. “Wake up whenever you’d like. Actually, if you choose right now, then I could tell my therapist that I couldn’t do her dumb exercise in the midst of all the drama, so….no? Not feeling it right now? That’s cool. I mean, it’s the golden age of television, so you’re missing out on some stuff, but…your call.”

He sits down in the chair next to Eddie’s bed. “So. Shanis wants me to get closure. By being honest. And I told her that was bullshit, because you’re going to wake up, and I can just tell you all this shit _when you wake up_ , but um. Who knows if I’ll be able to get a word in when you’re complaining about the elevation of your pillows and the hospital meals. And. Maybe a practice run would help, so. Here we are. And I know what you’re thinking, ‘Rich, you never shut the fuck up, how can you possibly have anything else to say to me?’ Well, strap the fuck in, buddy.”

“…And, you know, just on the off chance that you decided a coma would be a good way to get some peace, well now that you know that’s a fucking bust, you could just…wake up.”

Eddie’s long lashes don’t move an inch.

“Nope? Playing the long game? I respect that.”

“So. Let’s just, fucking, dive in, I guess. Um. I stole your diary, when we were 13. To be fair, I just wanted to learn the deepest and darkest secrets of your heart. Joke’s on me, because all you fucking wrote in there were your opinions on _Full House_. I would apologise, but I was the one who spent two months agonising over whether it meant anything that you wrote two full paragraphs on Uncle Jesse. So I’ll just say thanks a lot, asshole.”

“Um. I also snuck a puff of your inhaler, once, when-well, there was graffiti, and-it doesn’t matter. The point is, I didn’t feel any different. And if I’d told you, maybe you would’ve worked out that it was all fake, way earlier. But I just assumed it was me. That it didn’t work because I was, I don’t know, defective? So. I guess I will say sorry for that one.”

“I also fucked your mother. I know you thought you got the last word in on that front, but guess again Eduardo. I mean, hypothetically you could still get the last word. But you’d probably have to wake up, say it, and then immediately bash me over the head with your heart rate monitor. And we both know your tiny munchkin arms can’t manage that.”

“Oh. One more secret. I definitely remembered that we had a verbal contract, and I was supposed to let you have the hammock after ten minutes. But it had only been 5 minutes before you jumped in, so I guess we were both being little shits, huh?”

“I, um, didn’t mind, really. At age 13, I wanted 3 things. A widescreen TV, a ticket out of Derry, and you.”

He pauses.

“At age 40, I want two things. But I get to watch 2am FatBlaster commercials in fucking Cinemascope, so, you know. Living the dream.”

He curls his fingers until they ache, fights the itch in his throat telling him to take it back while he waits for a reaction. But of course, none comes.

“Was expecting more of a laugh. Story of my stand-up.”

* * *

“Eds. I just gotta warn you. Bill suggested we read to you. You know, keep your mind active. As if you don’t already have an overactive imagination. Anyway, I suggested our old comics, _as a fucking joke_ , and he took it entirely seriously, so he’s going to be reading you cartoon onomatopoeia in about an hour. Don’t worry, I’m totally going to film it, so you’ll be able to take the piss out of him as soon as you wake up. You know. Whenever you’re up to that.”

* * *

“Do you remember that poem? _I Married a Monster from Outer Space?_ I mean, you’re living it now. But when we were kids, I read it to you because I thought it would gross you out. Except you really liked it. You asked me to read it again, and you looked all pensive and intrigued, and the thought that I’d accidentally done something you’d liked was a little too much and I uh, threw the book at you and told you to read it yourself. I know, real smooth. Anyway. I thought it might be a little better than Bill trying to describe a picture of Iron Man, so…I thought I’d read it again. But you gotta promise you will not tell a soul that Richie Tozier does poetry readings. When you wake up.”

* * *

“I changed my mind. You can tell people when you wake up. In fact, I’ll tell people. Onstage. If you want. I will do an hour-long set about how much funnier you are than me. I will buy only the planet-destroying, individually-packaged vegetables because you think they’re more hygienic. I’ll buy stock in Big Ventolin. I'll-Whatever you want, Eddie. Whatever you want.”

* * *

“You’ve forced my hand from bribery to blackmail. Do you recall a Summer when I played _Take on Me_ until you threatened to stab me? If you don’t wake up today, you know what’s coming.”

* * *

“Fine, Bluff called. But only because I thought they’d stop letting me visit.”

* * *

“I’m sorry I didn’t visit yesterday. know I’m not the one who got impaled by an off-brand Gallagher, but Christ, this is hard, Eddie.”

* * *

“You know you have a rent-free apartment waiting, right? I won’t even make you my personal cabana boy. I mean, you are going to have to wear gym shorts every Friday, but that’s the only obligation. Promise.”

“…Fine, no gym shorts. Just a fanny pack.”

“…You drive a hard bargain, Kaspbrak. No fanny pack. Just you.”

* * *

“Richie Tozier here, calling in with your daily Loser update. So, Ben called Beverly his ‘Creampie’ the other day, because _apparently_ that was his favourite dessert growing up. He thought it was a sweet nickname. Apologised about 18 times when he found out it wasn’t. Anyway, Beverly _immediately_ told the group chat, because she’s whatever the opposite of a ride or die bitch is. This is what you’re…missing out on. Ok, I’m officially losing my mind, because I could’ve sworn you just-Eddie? Did you just- Jesus. Eds. Fucking Christ. You’re ok. It’s gone. I’ll get-I’ll get someone. I’ll be right back. Holy fuck.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [This](http://johncooperclarke.com/poems/i-married-a-monster-from-outer-space) is the poem teenage Richie tried to gross out teenage Eddie with. Meanwhile, Eddie was fixating on “big bug eyes” and the asshole earthlings.


	2. Chapter 2

Richie can’t stop smiling.

Eddie’s lying there, skinny and bleary-eyed, but totally fucking ok.

He’s not speaking or eating yet. He naps every hour or so. But his hand is on Richie’s. Not holding it, exactly. He’s a little too weak for that. But when Richie had tried to move, wipe the sweat off his palm, Eddie’s fingers spasmed, like he was trying to stop him. Richie kept his hand there, after that. Sweat be damned.

“I can’t believe,” Richie says, taking advantage of the fact that Eddie can’t talk back, “after all the sentimental shit I told you, you chose to wake up after Ben’s fucking _Creampie_ moment.”

It’s amazing what Eddie can convey through his eyes alone.

“It’s good to know you can still glare, Eds. We were worried you’d be one of those coma patients who wake up with a totally different personality. Can you imagine if you were suddenly nice? Or, God forbid, chill? What if you started telling everyone to hang ten? Would’ve had to have pulled the plug.”

Eddie rolls his eyes at him, for the first time since he woke up.

Every first feels exciting. In a weird way, he imagines this is how normal people feel about babies. He’s very inclined to snap a polaroid of the moment and caption it _His first eyeroll!_

Richie makes sure he’s not there when Myra visits. He makes sure he is there when the Losers reunite.

“We’re here to save you,” Bev says. “We all know that when Richie sees a captive audience, his first thought is trying out stand-up.”

Eddie smiles at her.

 _First smile_ , Richie thinks, gleeful. And then a little jealous.

“I’ve never been heckled so little,” Richie says.

“Same number of laughs as usual,” Bill says quietly.

Eddie smiles wider, and if Eddie has his first laugh at one of Bill’s jokes, Richie will just about riot.

But he doesn’t. Just smiles.

They stay for an hour or so, peeling off as it gets later into the evening.

Richie is the last one there. The nurse had been talking about overstimulation, and he’s just about to go, give Eddie some peace and quiet, when he hears something a croaky “Chee?” and sees Eddie’s brown eyes look at him pleadingly.

_First word, motherfuckers._

He stays all through the night.

He wakes up to Eddie hitting him on the arm.

“Ow. What?” He hears the nurse in his head. _If everything’s on track, a fuller range of movement should return within the next few days._

“Remembered. You stole my diary, asshole.” His voice is gravelly and dry, and so good to hear.

Richie gets him a cup of ice chips before he fully processes the words.

_Oh shit._

Eddie waves away the cup, so he leaves it on his bedside table. “You um, heard that, huh?”

“That wasn’t even my real diary, Einstein. I kept a decoy so that my mum would stop searching when she found it.”

“Wait. What was in your real diary?”

“None of your fucking business.”

“Tabling that for later. Uh, do you remember hearing anything else?”

Eddie glances away and clears his throat, but his voice is getting much thinner. “…Did I imagine it, or did you offer me a free apartment?”

Richie stops breathing momentarily. “Yeah. I mean, no, you didn’t imagine it. I am indeed the best landlord in the world.”

“I’m not being your cabana boy.”

Richie laughs a little too loud. “We’ll see, Eds.”

“I don’t even _own_ gym shorts anymore,” Eddie mumbles, as he leans back.

“I’ll buy you some,” Richie says. “What are you, a women’s 8?”

Eddie opens his mouth, but a yawn falls out instead of a retort. He glares, and Richie doesn’t know if it’s aimed at him or his own body’s betrayal, but it’s pretty fucking cute either way.

“It’s ok,” Richie says. “I’ll make the jokes. You just sit there and look pretty.”

Eddie flips him the bird before his eyes flutter shut, and he falls into a dreamless sleep.

Richie sees Myra on her way out of the hospital the next day, her eyes wet. And, for the first time, he feels a little sorry for her. But he feels a little hopeful, too.


	3. Chapter 3

Given the ‘free bed-and-breakfast-and-lunch-and-dinner’ arrangement they have going, Richie can tell that Eddie’s trying not to complain about the (tidyish) house or the (mostly edible) food.

A nurse comes by to change his dressings, and a physio to get his body back in shape. The physio tells Richie to sit in on the exercises so that he can practice them with Eddie too, and that is how Richie spends half an hour watching Eddie’s legs getting manhandled and wondering if there’s any way he can set himself on fire.

“Do you want to have a go?” the physio ( _Aaron? Archie? Arnie. That was it. Arnie_ _._ ) asks. “I can’t come in every day, so it would be good to have an extra pair of hands.”

“No,” Eddie and Richie say simultaneously. Then glance at each other.

“Does it look like he’s in control of his own limbs?” Eddie asks. “I’m not giving him control of mine.”

Richie opens his mouth to argue before realising they’re supposed to be on the same side.

“Gangly fuck, guilty as charged,” he adds instead.

“Ok,” Arnie says. “Then you’ll just have to prepare for a slower recovery.”

Richie looks up at the ceiling and sighs. “I could have a go,” he says eventually. “If I’m going to accidentally rip off one of his limbs, it might as well be while you’re here to reattach it.”

Arnie looks at him. “I don’t think you fully understand what a physio does.”

_I don’t know, Arnie. Do they guilt-trip people? Blow up the scenes of disaster gays who are just trying to fantasise about their friends in peace?_

“Do I get a say?” Eddie asks.

“Did I mention the slower recovery part?” Arnie asks, and _oh shit, if this guy has clocked Eddie’s hypochondria already, Richie might actually be a fan._

“Fine.” Eddie scowls at Richie, as if this is _his_ fault.

“Perfect!” Arnie turns to Richie. “Now we see if you were paying attention.”

_Why does this physio hate him, Richie Tozier, specifically? Did he do a bit about physios at some point?_

_He had been paying attention to the extent that Eddie’ calves were very close to his face, and that seemed like the most vital piece of information at the time. Whatever. He can wing this and probably not kill Eddie in the process._

“Right.” Richie holds one of Eddie’s ankles. “So I…put your legs over my shoulders-”

“ _What?_ ” Eddie squeaks. “That was not one of the steps.”

Arnie gives a suspect-sounding cough. “Just holding one at a time is fine, one hand at the ankle and one under the knee. You want to hold the leg at a 90 degree angle, but then push back against Eddie.”

“I never push back against Eddie,” Richie says, following instructions. “The man’s a steamroller.”

Eddie gives Richie a _Stop embarrassing me in front of the professional trying to do their job_ look.

Arnie starts explaining something else, but Richie doesn’t listen for very long. He’s distracted by the sudden, familiar sensation of a socked foot reaching out to bounce against his cheek.

For about 3 seconds, he wonders if it’s some subconscious twitch.

Until he looks at Eddie, mouth quirking, and it becomes abundantly clear that it’s intentional.

It’s been a while since Richie saw him smile.

“Doc.” He interrupts Arnie, undoubtedly in the middle of some very important information. “At this stage in recovery, do you think our boy Eddie could withstand a physical attack?”

“Don’t answer that,” Eddie says immediately.

Arnie looks between them, confused and slightly concerned. “I…what?”

“For instance,” Richie says, “being tackled on a duvet?”

Arnie stares at him. “I mean…yes, but-”

At that, Richie’s sitting on Eddie’s stomach, hands on his wrists, and there’s definitely no way he’s getting socked in the face again.

Eddie twists his head to the side to obscure the smile tugging at his mouth. But Richie sees it. Richie always sees it.

Archie is giving Eddie a look, like _Do you need help incapacitating this ape-like, substandard comedian?_ , so Richie says “It’s a new exercise. I sit on him, he tries to escape. Trains all the muscle groups.”

“Just…ignore him,” Eddie says to Arnie. “Um. What were you saying about muscle tension?” _and oh, apparently they’re having the rest of this conversation with Richie perched on Eddie. Ok._

“Just that your muscles might tense up a bit, so Richie can help out with a massage-”

“I don’t feel tense,” Eddie says rapidly. “I feel so, so relaxed. Very relaxed.”

“See?” Richie says. “I’m like a weighted blanket. Therapeutic.”

Eddie yanks a hand free to whack him in the shoulder. “Weighted is right.”

“Although I’m experiencing some acute pain in my shoulder,” Richie continues. “So I’m on board with the massage idea.”

Arnie raises an eyebrow. “I, uh, wasn’t suggesting it for you.”

“I don’t know how your parents raised you,” Richie says, “but in this house, massage circles are reciprocal.”

“Just tune him out,” Eddie says to Arnie. “It’s what I do.”

Richie snorts, because Eddie is fundamentally incapable of tuning Richie out. If he wasn’t, he would be a lot less fun to torment.

Eddie turns to glare at him. Proving his point.

“Right.” says Arnie. “So. I’ll see you next week?”

“Thanks,” Eddie says. “I’d see you out, but um-” he gestures vaguely at Richie sitting on him.

“…Not a problem,” Arnie says, turning to go.

Richie may watch him leave. Physios definitely keep things tight.

Eddie takes advantage of the moment to flip them over.

“Beaten by a coma patient,” he says, looking down at Richie. “How’s it feel?”

All Richie can think is _he’s getting better_. So it feels pretty fucking good.

“It feels like you’ve singlehandedly crushed my WrestleMania dreams.”

Eddie scoffs. “Is wrestling your comedy fallback? God, I bet you were the career counsellor’s worst nightmare.”

“Oh yeah. She dedicated hours to breaking my spirit. She wanted me to become, can you believe, a _risk analyst_?”

Eddie rolls his eyes and tumbles off Richie, laying back on the bedspread.

“Dinner?” asks Richie, poking his side.

“Yeah,” says Eddie. He makes a move to get up, then frowns. “Rich. Can you-”

“Sure.” Richie slides off Eddie’s side of the bed and gives him a hand sitting up.

“Thanks,” Eddie says, not looking at him.

“Hey,” Richie says. “If you want to just eat dinner in bed-”

“No,” Eddie interrupts. “I can do this.”

Richie acquiesces, going to the kitchen to rustle up some pasta. Eddie’s tired, clearly, and he keeps rubbing at a crick in his neck, but Richie knows better than to push.

They spend the evening on the couch, eating spaghetti Bolognese, watching an old movie. Richie keeps interrupting with Transatlantic commentary. Eddie kicks him in the shoulder, which is something. But he’s quiet for the rest of the night.


	4. Chapter 4

The quiet doesn’t last for long.

“I’m going to the shops,” Eddie says the next morning, after a breakfast of scrambled eggs and ketchup.

“Um.” Richie hesitates. Eddie’s only been walking around the house so far. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“Certain,” says Eddie, getting up.

Richie gets between him and the door. Not to stop him, just to try to reason with him.

Eddie’s eyebrows dip, immediately.

Richie scrambles for the right words, and fails to find them. “You’re still weak,” comes out instead.

Eddie’s eyes turn flint-like. And that’s when a fucking clipshow of Sonia Kaspbrak’s Finest Moments starts playing in Richie’s head.

_Your cold might not be contagious anymore, but you’re still weak, Eddie-bear. Tell Richie you can’t go to the arcade today._

_Don’t go on any of the rollercoasters, Eddie. Your constitution’s too fragile._

_How could you let this happen to him? He’s delicate._

“I didn’t-” Richie starts. “I just meant-”

“I’m not a fucking _child_ ,” he says, slower than he usually speaks. Emphasising every word. “And you’re not my keeper.”

He’s out the door before Richie can say anything else.

_Fuck_. _Fuck fuck fuck._ _Good fucking job, Tozier._

Richie rubs his hands over his eyes. Sits on the couch, and waits. Picks up his phone.

_Sorry_ , he types. _I don’t think before I open my mouth. Maybe why I’m such a shitty comedian?_

Richie waits for a response for an hour.

Eddie should be back by now.

Richie should go look for him.

_Don’t fucking baby him._

Richie shouldn’t go looking for him.

Richie wants to go looking for him. He’s about to get up and grab his keys when the door opens.

“Hi,” Eddie says, leaning against the doorframe.

_Are you ok?_ he wants to ask.

_Don’t fucking baby him._

“Hi,” Richie says.

“I’m going to sleep,” Eddie says. “But then maybe we can talk?”

“Sure.” _That’s not a terrifying thing to hear. Not at all._

Richie occupies himself by making his and Eddie’s lunch, an obscenely healthy salad. Eddie’s awake by the time Richie brings it in.

“Thanks,” Eddie says. “Eat with me?”

There’s no way Eddie hasn’t caught on to the fact that his puppy-dog eyes work on Richie.

Richie brings his own plate in, and sits up in bed next to Eddie, and wonders how they manage to pack so much silence into a few seconds.

“Sorry,” he says. “About this morning.”

“Jesus,” Eddie says, cringing. “Don’t. I was being a dick.”

“You weren’t.”

“No, I really fucking was.” Eddie breathes in, looking at the bedspread like he’s trying to arrange his thoughts there. “I know I can’t ask you to take care of me and then get angry when you do it. But. For so long, I was told that I had to take pill cocktails, and never exert myself, and now it’s actually _true_ , but I don’t trust it. I can’t trust it. I’m too afraid of locking myself into the person I used to be.”

“Eds,” Richie says. “You won’t get stuck. You’re way too fucking stubborn. We both are. I swear, as soon as you don’t need them anymore, I’ll throw all your medications into a fucking volcano.”

Eddie rolls his eyes, smile pressing against the corners of his mouth. “I know.” He looks at Richie, and Richie feels like he’s reading off his thoughts. “I know you’re not my mother,” he says. “Or Myra.”

It’s the first time being different feels like a relief.

“Not the greatest compliment I’ve ever received,” he says, “but I’ll take it.”

Eddie lets out a breathy chuckle, probably pleasantly surprised that it’s not a Mrs Kaspbrak sex joke classic, and it takes Richie a minute to realise, but, _holy shit. First laugh since the coma._

Something about that spins him a little out of control, mouth suddenly dry and heart beating fast.

“You want to hear something humiliating?” Eddie asks.

“Always,” Richie says, trying to get his lungs to work normally.

“I had to nap on a bench. On the way back from the shops.”

“Could’ve been worse.”

“A nice old lady came over and asked me where I was sleeping tonight. And without even thinking about how it sounded, I said ‘with Richie Tozier’.”

_Lungs, you useless pieces of shit._

“Oof. Ok, it could not have been worse. Your reputation is ruined. You should’ve just let her think you were homeless.”

“I should’ve said Bo Burnham,” Eddie says wistfully. “I mean, if she’s going to think I’m screwing a comedian…”

“Granted, that would be better for your rep. But he’s 6’5”. You’d basically be like, his hand puppet.”

“Ok, do I even need to say beep beep?”

“I’m just saying, aim higher. I mean, literally, you’d need to aim a lot-”

Eddie aims a pillow at his face.

It’s probably not normal that _that_ is how Richie knows they’re back to normal.


	5. Chapter 5

The next day, it’s obvious that Eddie pushed himself a little too hard. He winces whenever he moves an inch, and Richie winces right along with him.

And every time, he hears Arnie’s voice in his ear, taunting him.

“Richie can help out with a massage.” _No he fucking can’t. Not while maintaining his sanity._

He holds out until evening, when Eddie’s sitting on the couch, involved in a futile attempt to grope at his own shoulders.

“Listen,” he says, already feeling regret, “I can…” he gestures vaguely at Eddie’s body. “help out, if you want.”

He’s expecting Eddie to turn him down, and then, due diligence done, he can stop feeling guilty about it.

Instead, Eddie’s eyebrows bounce up. “For real? That’d be great.” He pulls his T-shirt off, _no big deal, just Eddie Kaspbrak’s perfect fucking abs on display_ , and heads to the bedroom.

_Oh, perfect! They’re going to the bedroom! Richie was approaching this like a nervous 15 year-old on a second date, expecting things to go no further than a quick, clumsy over-the-shirt groping, but apparently they’re more married-couple-with-3-hours-to-spare-and-a-copy-of-the-Karma-Sutra._

He takes 4 deep breaths, and follows Eddie.

He’s already laying on his stomach. Hands on the pillow. His fucking isosceles triangle of an upper body on display. Including the little dip right before- _not getting distracted. He’s a professional. For the next half hour, at least._

“Ok,” Richie says, “so I’m not actually sure what I’m doing-”

“Just don’t go anywhere near my spinal cord,” Eddie says. “I don’t want to be paralysed by your botchy-ass massage. And use lotion, your hands are so fucking dry.”

“A series of Vulcan nerve pinches on your vertebrae. Gotcha.” He hops on to the other side of the bed and kneels next to Eddie. 

_Eddie’s back feels like a blank test paper. Like where he starts is going to define some intrinsic part of his personality. Start at the top and Eddie’s going to jump up and say, “I fucking KNEW you liked my shoulders!”_

_Neck? Necks are pretty asexual. Except that Richie watches Eddie’s Adam’s apple bob, sometimes, and wonders what it would look like if he was-_

“Hi,” Eddie says, lifting his head off the pillow a little bit. “You still awake, dipshit?”

_Neck it is!_

Richie reaches over to the end table for Eddie’s lotion. It’s rose-scented, he realises when he rubs it into his hands. Because that’s what this whole situation needed. Romantic scents.

He brushes his thumbs into the divots between Eddie’s shoulders and neck, flinching back when Eddie shivers.

“Cold hands,” he hears, mumbled into the pillow.

Richie’s not sure what he’s supposed to do with that, but brings his hands up to his face, and breathes into them, like he’s trying to warm up in the snow.

“Are you breathing into your hands?” Eddie asks. “Do you have any idea how unhygienic-”

“And have you catch my rabies? I would never.” Richie dips his thumbs into Eddie’s shoulders again. He doesn’t shiver, this time, but he does tense up a little.

And Richie always reacts the same way to a tense Eddie.

He attempts a vaguely European accent. “My name iz Gunnar, I’ll be your masseur zis evening-”

Eddie groans into the pillow. It’s clearly not a relaxed groan, but his shoulders already have a little more give.

“We don’t have any of zee hot stones, or zee suction cups, but I can find some _keeyttles_ , and a _vaaycuum_ , and we’ll be set.”

“There’s no way you know where the vacuum is.”

“Sir, I cannot hear you when your head is in zee pillow.”

Eddie’s hand lifts from the pillow to flip him the bird, and there’s silence again.

Richie kind of shot himself in the foot with that one. Now there’s nothing to focus on but the soft push-and-pull of Eddie’s neck.

He moves his hands to bunch up around Eddie’s shoulders, and Eddie gives an encouraging moan into the pillow.

Richie feels vaguely hysterical. He looks at Eddie’s face, hoping it will be marginally better than looking at Eddie’s body, but it’s not, not really.

Because Eddie looks relaxed. Eyes shut, lashes dusting his cheek. Jaw slack. Left cheek squished against the pillow, chubby again, like it was in childhood.

It’s bizarre. Like seeing a blissed-out chipmunk. You just don’t expect them to have that mode of being. He has to suppress the urge to topple a dish off a table, just to get the old Eddie back, screeching about glass shards.

Because Eddie deserves a rest. And Richie doesn’t want to squander the chance to give it to him. It’s the same feeling he got at 13, when he’d make a bad joke and all the other Losers would look at him unimpressed. And then Eddie, in the corner, would be trying to muffle his laughter in his hands.

 _Does that count as maturing?_ Going from _All that matters is that he’s paying attention to me_ to _All that matters is that he’s peaceful._

Richie manages to spend at least 30 seconds feeling good about how selfless and ascetic he’s being about all of this. Then he thinks _I wonder if that’s what Eddie looks like when he’s fucked-out_. _If that bleeds all the tension from his tightly-wound little body._ And he’s back, to regular old intense self-awareness.

_Focussing. Focussing on the shoulders._

_God, Richie loves his shoulders. Loves how easily he can fit an arm around them, how easy he is to draw in and keep close._

_Ok, not focussing on the shoulders. Focus on something else._

He moves his hands to Eddie’s lower back. Ghosts a finger over his scar. A pale pink gash. Where the stiches dug into the skin, only faint strips of white remain. Like dandelion seeds.

Eddie breathes in, a little sharply.

“Does it hurt?” he asks, drawing his hand back. _Jesus, his voice has gone husky._

“No. Just sensitive. But s’good. Massage promotes healing.”

Richie can tell he was planning on more of a medical lecture. He thinks he’s just a little too sleepy.

Which is good. Because if Eddie falls asleep, Richie can get out of here without anyone noticing he’s halfway to public indecency.

So he kneads along Eddie’s torso, working out the knots.

“This ok?” he asks quietly, more trying to gauge if Eddie’s fallen asleep than anything else.

“So good,” Eddie mumbles into the pillow, which is absolutely the last thing Richie needed to hear him say right now, _Jesus fuck._

It takes forever and a year, but it happens. Eddie eventually falls asleep. Richie can tell, because his lips part, just a little, and his breathing evens out.

He gives himself one more minute. Brushes his thumb over the scar a couple of times. There’s something comforting about how rough it feels, how real.

He’s been thinking about that a lot, lately. He should probably want the scar gone. He knows it bothers Eddie. Sees him forlorn in the mirror, sees him itching at it, hand pushing up his shirt when they’re curled up in front of the TV.

But Richie likes the evidence that he’s healed. Somehow finds it more convincing than if there were nothing there at all. If Eddie were a patch-free, perfect doll, he thinks he’d expect the illusion to crumble any second.

He misses his own scar. Would’ve liked a constant reminder that he had people in his life, people he’d go to such lengths for.

 _You can see them. Anytime,_ he tells himself. _Don’t need the reminder. They’re real._

_Eddie’s real. Eddie’s healed. Eddie’s not fragile._

_Even if everything about their relationship feels precarious._

Richie looks at the clock.

Minute up.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for references to domestic violence.

Eddie doesn’t ask for another massage.

And Richie could read a hundred different things into that, but realistically? He thinks it’s because his health’s improving.

He’s starting to get some of his Eddie-ness back, that irrepressible energy.

He likes to putter around the kitchen, coming up with devious solutions to the ever-present challenge: how to cook something that he deems healthy and Richie deems edible.

Richie writes sets in his room during Eddie’s Chef Time, can’t really be around without ending up Eddie-watching, possessed by the need to get over there and bother him.

But he leaves his door open a little.

Sometimes he’ll hear Eddie humming, or quietly singing old theme tunes from the shows of their childhood.

It’s fucking stupid that hearing Eddie speak-sing _Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles_ under his breath makes Richie want to go over there and circle his arms around Eddie’s torso and just hold him for an hour or two, but that’s where Richie’s at right now. Feeling fucking stupid, a lot of the time.

Then Eddie starts on _Duck Tales_.

It’s absolutely unacceptable to leave that unchallenged.

Eddie forages in the cupboard for a breadboard. Richie makes his way into the kitchen, realising he has the chance for a sneak attack. He creeps up, not entirely sure what he’s going for.

Then Eddie turns around, and the breadboard he’s holding hits Richie square in the jaw.

“Jesus _fuck_ ,” says a rattled Eddie.

“Ow,” says Richie, mostly on instinct. Then, noticing Eddie’s earphones, “…Do you have a list of 80s theme songs queued up on there?”

There’s a brief pause. “No,” Eddie says, unconvincing, and then he’s off, putting down the board, getting an icepack from the freezer and wrapping it up in tea towels.

And standing very close, pressing an icepack to Richie’s cheek.

_Looking up with those fucking concerned lamb eyes._

Eddie shifts the icepack, so he can brush a thumb over Richie’s jaw, numb from the cold but not nearly numb enough for any of this.

“Well, I don’t think anything’s broken.” he says. “You feel ok?”

“Hunky dory,” says Richie. “Quick question, does anyone else smell burnt toast?”

Eddie rolls his eyes. “Don’t joke about that, asshole. Or one day it’s going to be a Boy Who Cried Wolf scenario.”

Richie snorts. “I love how certain you are that I’m going to have a stroke one day. Almost like you’re planning it.”

“Maybe I am!” says Eddie. “Maybe I am.”

Richie takes hold of the icepack, suddenly hyperaware of the fact that he should’ve taken it from Eddie about 5 minutes back.

Luckily, Eddie seems just as surprised at this revelation as he is.

“So,” Eddie says, hands dropping, “what did you come in here for?”

“Just wanted a distraction from writing.”

“Mission accomplished,” Eddie says, then he sighs. “God, what if it bruises? Rich, your fans are gonna think you have an abusive boyfriend. And we live together! They’re gonna think _I’m_ the abusive boyfriend! Am I gonna get doxxed?”

Richie tries not to fixate on the fact that the _boyfriend_ part of that is not what seems to bother Eddie.

He waves his free hand placatingly and says, “It’s fine. Steve told me I have to ‘lean in’ to the gay thing. I’ll just say it was a cock-slapping gone wrong.”

Eddie pulls a face. “Seriously? How heavy does a dick have to be to bruise?”

“You tell me,” Richie says, waggling his brows.

Eddie turns back to his breadboard and starts aggressively chopping capsicum, tips of his ears tinged pink.

“Well,” Richie says, quickly putting the icepack on the counter and backing out. “I’ll leave you to cooking.”

“Keep icing your jaw!” Eddie yells after him, and Richie obediently darts back in to pick up the icepack.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to avoid sex scenes, skip from "Eddie pushes at his shoulders" to the start of the last paragraph. Nothing's very explicit.

If Richie’s life could be summed up in a pop-up ad (and he’s certain it can), it would be _Therapists hate him._

There came a time when he had to let slip to Shanis that Eddie:

  1. Had woken up
  2. Probably hadn’t remembered all of Richie’s confessions, given that they were
  3. Now cohabiting



There was, of course, also the possibility that Eddie remembered everything, did _not_ feel the same, and was giving Richie an out. Which he’d take with both hands.

Richie’s initial excuse for not saying anything, _Eddie’s in the middle of a lot right now_ , was rapidly evaporating. He had been forced to turn to his second, more truthful excuse, which was that he had already been emotionally honest once in his life, once more than he ever envisioned, and he really didn’t think it was fair to expect a second moment of sincerity from him.

Shanis was not impressed with that.

But Richie’s riding the high of relief. He rocked the boat, and it didn’t capsize. He’s not about to double down on his efforts to tip their little canoe over. He likes their little canoe. The catering is good, the company is excellent, and it’s getting suspiciously cleaner every day. Why change anything?

He walks home from his appointment, convincing himself he’s right. _They can keep doing this forever. Right? Right?_

Eddie’s lying on the couch, watching a cooking show when he comes in. He’s wearing sweatpants and a too-big t-shirt. Richie feels a little bit of his resolve crumble.

“Your TV is too big,” Eddie says, flinging a hand up. _Apparently they’re eliding hellos._ “I have to choose a quadrant to focus on. Can you imagine watching your stand-up on this? Seeing your 34-inch head? Terrifying.”

“Wouldn’t be the widescreen’s fault,” Richie says. “I really do have a 34-inch head. Upstairs and down-”

“Beep beep, asshole.” Eddie groans and runs his hands over his eyes. “Don’t you want a TV you can watch without getting a migraine?”

“Stop insulting the CinemaScope. You’re shitting on everything 13 year-old me stood for.”

Eddie’s hands drop. He looks at Richie with wide eyes.

“Um. Eds? You good?”

“CinemaScope,” he says quietly, now tugging his legs up to his chest. “I didn’t imagine it, did I?”

Richie frowns at how quickly and inscrutably he seems to have ruined the mood. “The TV? No, the TV definitely exists. I know it seems too good to be true, but-”

“When you were 13,” Eddie interrupts, quoting Richie back at him. “you wanted three things.”

“Oh.” Richie says, heart tumbling into his stomach and fizzing away, like an Alka-Seltzer taking a deep-dive. “Fuck.”

Eddie’s brows dip. “You fucking _asshole_ ,” he says, pitch rising. “When were you planning on telling me?”

“Ok,” Richie says, only realising he’s retreating when his back hits the wall. “I mean, I think we just established that I _did_ tell you-”

“I was in a coma, dipshit. I thought I got murdered about 18 times. How was I supposed to tell what was fucking real?”

“I told you I loved you,” Richie says, watching the light drain from the room, “and you thought it was another _nightmare?"_

“I thought I was _dying_ ,” Eddie spits, “and dreaming up the one thing that would help me fucking _cope_.”

Richie rewinds and replays the words in his head. Repeatedly.

“…Oh.”

“Yeah, ‘oh’,” Eddie says, but it’s softer now, and he’s looking at his hands. “Bet you feel like a real asshole now, huh?”

Richie does not feel like an asshole. In fact, he feels like he might’ve been Mr Rogers in another life. It’s the only explanation for this karmic bounty.

“So,” Richie says, walking over to the couch. Starts talking, because that, shockingly, seems to have served him well so far. “Um.” He sits next to Eddie. Tries to squirrel his freakishly long legs beneath him, so they’re not in the way. “…Did you have any more _adult_ dreams, or-”

Eddie’s eyes dart to him. “You fucking _dick-_ ”

And that’s his cue to slide their lips together, palming Eddie’s cheek.

Eddie pushes at his shoulders, and Richie freaks out for a second, wondering how he could’ve fundamentally misread _this_ situation. But- _oh_ , Eddie’s pushing him further back.

In a flurry of movement, Richie stretches himself along the couch, head resting on a cushion.

Eddie straddles him, leaning down to mouth at his neck.

He’s a biter. Surprising no one. Except, somehow, Richie’s dick, which gives a little start at the news

Eddie's mouth moves up to Richie’s ear, and Richie wonders, fleetingly, if Eddie’s going to stick his tongue in there as payback for all the times at school that Richie did exactly that.

He’s much less anxious about that happening than he is that, given everything else that’s happening, he might actually enjoy it.

 _God_ , he hopes he doesn’t enjoy it.

Eddie would never let him live it down.

But Eddie just nips at his earlobe, dragging his teeth down, and Richie makes an undignified sound which Eddie is probably not going to let him live down either.

Eddie slicks his tongue against Richie’s parted lips. The kiss deepens. Richie slips one hand into Eddie’s hair and pulls.

Eddie makes this pleased little hum. _Look at you. Now you’re getting it._ That perfectly condescending tone that never fails to launch Richie’s libido somewhere into the stratosphere.

“Good?” Richie asks, just to hear Eddie say “B plus,” and slide a hand up Richie’s shirt. And that is definitely not B plus. It’s honour roll material.

Richie reaches for the hem of Eddie’s shirt, and Eddie fucking _propels_ himself backward.

Richie stares at him.

“Um.” Eddie gestures at his shirt vaguely. “It’s kind of…gnarly.”

“ _Gnarly_ ,” Richie repeats. “Oh my God. I was right, in the hospital. When I thought you’d been possessed by the soul of a chill surfer dude.”

Eddie glares at him. “Shut the fuck up.”

“Eddie,” he says. “I’ve seen you shirtless. In fact, I’ve seen your stomach when it was more clown claw than abs.”

“That’s beside the point,” Eddie says. “You weren’t trying to stay hard at the time.”

Richie shrugs. “You don’t know my life.”

Eddie’s whole face wrinkles up. “Ok, that’s-You’re so gross.”

“ _Exactly_.” Richie says. “I used to dream about you giving me spit handshakes. Or tying me up with the strap of your fanny pack. You want to gross me out, you’ve got to try harder than a scar.”

Eddie’s face does a lot of things, in sequence.

“You had dreams about that?” he says. “When we were…”

And _fuck_ , Richie definitely worried about his childhood crush creeping Eddie out, but he wasn’t expecting it to happen after Eddie had just given him a hickey.

“Um.”

“For me,” Eddie says haltingly, “I didn’t-”

“You weren’t holding a candle,” Richie says, shifting uncomfortably. “I get it.”

“No,” Eddie says. “I just didn’t realise I was. I’d have these weird closet dreams. Where we’d just be _talking_ , or-or you’d shove me, or something, and I’d wake up…”

Richie raises an eyebrow.

Eddie looks like he’s struggling to find another word, before he sighs and says, “…sticky. And confused.” For once he’s making a face at himself, instead of at Richie.

“Oh my God.” _This is beyond a karmic bounty. This is the billion-dollar jackpot._

“I know,” Eddie says. “It’s-”

“-hot,” Richie offers. _And fucking heart-stopping, the idea that Eddie was feeling some trace of what Richie felt for him, even back then._

“…humiliating,” Eddie amends.

“Oh,” says Richie, “it’s definitely also humiliating. I can’t believe you get off to the sound of my _voice_.”

“Ok,” Eddie says, “I don’t know how _that’s_ what you got from that story.”

“It’s like you’re so vanilla that you circle right back into kinky.”

“If I take off my shirt, will you shut up?”

Richie mimes zipping his mouth shut.

He breaks his promise as soon as the shirt comes off, though.

“Oh my God. You absolute _twunk_.”

Eddie makes a move to put his shirt back on, but Richie grabs at his wrist. “It’s a compliment!”

“Sure it is,” Eddie says, unimpressed.

Richie shifts underneath him, so he can feel exactly how much of a compliment it is.

A breathy little “oh,” exits Eddie’s mouth in a puff of air. His hands go to Richie’s waist, two fingers hooking into the belt loop of his jeans, and then he just. Stops. He’s still looking at Richie, but he’s frowning a little.

“Eds.” Richie swallows. “We don’t have to. I will settle for 6 hours of spooning.”

Eddie snorts. “You fucking _sap_. No, I just-uh, I was deep-diving into some Cheetos earlier, so I’m going to um, wash my hands first?”

Richie groans.

He could tell Eddie that he really doesn’t give a shit if he ends up with some Cheeto-based UTI right now, but he really doesn’t think it’d have a positive effect.

He follows Eddie to the bathroom, because he’s pretty sure he’s not going to get away with not washing his hands either.

“Sorry,” Eddie says, delicately soaping up and washing each finger. “But um. You probably should’ve guessed that sex with me would be a nightmare.”

Richie watches his small, retentively-manicured fingers curl in the hand-towel, and imagines them in his hair instead.

“A nightmare,” Richie agrees. “Like, a recurring one that I had every night for at least-”

“Ok,” says Eddie, going peachy-pink all the way down to his bellybutton. “I get the picture.”

Eddie looks expectantly at Richie until he shoves his hands under the soap dispenser and into the stream of water.

Richie breaks his focus when he flicks his wet fingers at Eddie, watching him yelp and shield his face.

Richie wants to kiss him, on the bridge of his nose, across his cheekbone, down his jaw, across each slope of his neck. But some tiny irrational part of him still thinks that this is going to end if Eddie knows just how much he wants it.

Instead, Richie wipes his hands on his jeans, watches the eyeroll it warrants, fucking drinks it in.

Eddie reaches out, tugs on his wrist, drags him back- _oh, back to the couch. Not the bedroom. Interesting._ Richie slips his shirt off and lays it over the couch, because he’s way too old to get into the aerobics of taking your shirt off while lying down.

Eddie pushes him back down, sitting on his stomach. Then he pauses again, looking annoyed.

Richie lays his head back against the couch. “Spit it out. Do you need me to gargle with saltwater? Shave? Get a colonic?”

“I forgot the lube,” Eddie says, which is definitely not in the top ten sentences Richie was expecting, but does give him an opportunity to save the day.

He reaches his hand into the recesses of the couch cushion, prompting a horrified noise from Eddie, then pulls out a small bottle. Prompting an even more horrified noise.

“What the fuck, Richie? Why is that in the couch? _What?_ ”

“ _Someone’s_ sleeping in my bedroom. I adapted.”

“Oh my God,” Eddie says. “You-on the couch?” _Given our current positions, the judginess seems a little hypocritical_ , Richie wants to point out.

Instead, he says. “In the bathroom.” _Mostly_. “But I wasn’t going to knock on your door in the middle of the night looking for lube, was I? This is easy access.”

“So keep it _in the bathroom_.”

“And have your meticulous ass keeping track of how full it is? No thank you.”

“Jesus Christ. What if we had guests over, and they pulled it out, huh? What the fuck is your play, then?”

“Icebreaker for a threesome.”

Eddie stares at him for long enough that Richie says, appeasingly, “I mean, now we can keep it in our bedroom. Problem solved.”

“Real presumptuous to assume I’m going to let you sleep in the same bed as me, after that,” Eddie says, but his hands go to Richie’s fly, abruptly enough that Richie’s hips buck up. His mouth follows not long after.

Eddie fidgets, trying to get more comfortable.

Richie, for his part, stays deathly still. He's still a little dazed, and he's not taking any chances that he could dislodge Eddie. 

“Please tell me your cushion covers are washable," Eddie says into his chest hair.

“I don’t know,” Richie says. “Never tested them out.”

Eddie makes a little sound of revulsion and curls himself up on Richie, so he’s not touching the couch.

And Richie might be lightly suffocating, but he’s not about to complain.

“Love you,” he says, feeling warm and content.

“I’d love you more if you cleaned your couch.”

“That’s fair,” says Richie, his hands drifting through Eddie’s hair like waves. “It’s not going to happen. But it’s fair.”

Eddie puts his chin on Richie’s chest. He looks like he’s trying to start an argument, but with every sweep of Richie’s fingers, his eyelids droop lower and lower.

“Really? You don’t want me to love you 10% more?”

“No.” Richie smiles at Eddie’s yawn. “This is more than enough.”


End file.
